Sounds Against the Darkness

Musically, this video is based on what i have learned from the organ works ot the French avant-garde composer Messiaen -- who was once such a prisoner himself. Political prisoners, of course, are never called such by the governments holding them. But when for 19 months no formal charges have been filed -- when no bail hearings have been held --when those accused of arguably more serious crimes against persons and property, and several months earlier, have had their charges not only dismissed, but dismissed "with prejudice" (meaning they can never be brought up again) -- then, my friends, you may be sure that you are confronted with political prisoners. And just such are our Jan. 6 detainees. I hope with this video to draw more attention to their plight: those seeking to know more or to help financially can go here: wearegoodmen.com The Left does a far better job than us -- and with far worse material -- in drawing attention to their soi-disant victims. We have to get better at this!

Just released from FB "jail" -- for what can only be described as Wordcrime! -- the Prisoner attempts to explain himself within the tech-tyrant imposed limits. For here, the Buckerzwerg has gone where even the Googleplex has declined to follow. I could be far freer here, my friends, but I think what has been banned is totally obvious. Such is our time, where even the moths must suffer rust and corruption! and I say, Defund the Speech Police! Quote at the end is from Tom Paine, after his release from a Jacobin jail.

Is the fault in our stars or in ourselves? Lyrics from the redoubtable Rudyard, all music by me!

My instrumental version (2 guitars and accordion) of one of just about everybody's favorite Gospel hymns. I myself know all too well where I would be without that Grace!

My instrumental version of the beloved carol. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!

Have I joined the Newspeak language-altering bureau? God forbid! Just sending some good vibes in a difficult time to a Spanish lady of my acquaintance in conversations with whom Don Quixote -- el Caballero de la Figura Dolorosa -- has come up more than once.

Short of full-blown war -- and it may come -- the best attack against spiritual ugliness is beauty. This song certainly applies. The “Londonderry Air” first saw print in 1855, in a collection from the “Society for the Preservation and Publication of Ancient Irish Music.” The “Danny Boy” words were added later – by an Englishman! -- in 1926. Both tune and lyrics are hence firmly and unalterably in the public domain safe from even the most well-funded efforts at copyright extension by the likes of the Wokey Mouse Club and Sonny Bono’s widow Cui.

An old-timey rag about some modern predicaments. Sometimes you just gotta laugh...’cause it hurts too much to cry! Everybody tells me I should lighten up and take it easy, Just polish up my face and my shoes. Get on with this new age positive thinkin’, And I can have anything that I choose. Then the boss said, You’re fired, ‘cause that shit-eatin’ grin Don’t fit our company schema. And I won a vacation in Japan – at Fukushima! Mmmmmm Seems like even when I win I find a way to lose. I got the finally got a rainy day to spend with my woman And the roof leaks over the bed blues. Well I been checkin’all the websites, bookmarkin’ all the highlights That say they’ll put my life in forward. But they either need a skillset that I just do not have yet, Or a sheepskin I cannot afford. I’ve followed the directions, filled out all the sections, Must be some breakdown on the information superhighweay. ‘Cause the scammers and the spammers Are the only ones that send an email my way! Mmmmmm Somebody shake me hard and wake me, ‘Cause this life just wants to make me An offer I canna refuse. I got the finally got a rainy day to spend with my woman And the roof leaks over the bed blues. *** *** *** No use cryin’, or denyin’, or to call the FBI in Lady Luck has vanished, leavin’ no clues., I got the finally got a rainy day to spend with my woman And the roof leaks over the bed blues.

No words necessary. R.I.P. Ashli Babbitt.

My longtime collaboratrix Monica Bergo and I sing a story (sort of) from one (or more) of the interpenetrating and mutually contradictory alternate universes that make up our current Reality. With big nods to the old-time circus, the Second Amendment, and Rudyard Kipling! And if anybody needs to know: Gadjo = Gypsy for non-Gypsies. Think "Goyim." Planck length = in Quantum Mechanics, the smallest possible distance. Infinitessimal but still, as the mathematicians say, nonzero. Has nothing to do with the board the pirates supposedly used. A gypsy girl ran off to join the circus, Same lifestyle, just a different caravan. She separated gadjo from their money, The sideshow freak magician was her man. Yet sometimes she would dream a strange existence, A settled house, a more prosaic him. But sometimes he would disrespect her gypsy, And sometimes she must fear for life and limb. She woke with the dawn, Said, “Which world am I on? The one that my eyes see or one that my blood knows is real?” But she knows to get by, (in her own strength) Just how much to deny, (to the Planck length) And the times and the places where dreams leave deep traces to feel. All those fine interfaces between silken graces and steel. ******** In a corner some lightyears from Paradise he sits and he ponders, Chuchundra the Muskrat who played Rikki-Tikki’s own game. He killed several snakes, and courted fair ladies far distant. But they all turned him down, with his muskratness always to blame. He courted the gypsy, and said, “This time will be different.” She rejected him just like the rest for his water-rat’s tail. So he went on with life. Oh, how unheroic! But even a hero must know when it’s time to just bail. Are they mad? Are they sane? Will they try it again? Is it wrong to seek possible joy ‘gainst impossible pain? Are they two? Are they one? (choice is insane) Are they through? Not begun? (and on what plane?) Full of second-hand sci-fi dreams charging with phasers on stun. Made from mothwings and moonbeams and seeking their place in the sun. Rig the odds. Jump the gun. Praise the gods. Still not done. Such a team that’s still seen on the screen when the movie has run. Made from mothwings and moonbeams and seeking their place in the sun.

As I have said, my friends, I'm not really a "political" artist, but the repression and silencing from the Big Tech platforms -- Youtube's ejection of Sebastian Gorka being only the latest example -- is beyond frightening, and as the experience of Charlie Hebdo in France showed, freedom of speech is indivisible. If even one topic is made off limits, the whole ethos collapses. I'm not abandoning the big platforms -- yet-- but increasingly my heart and care will be here. This song, admittedly would cause no problems there -- but I don't want this our Rumble to be ONLY the repository for the by-the-new-Pravda-inadmissable stuff. That's a recipe for failure. We should be able to find EVERYTHING -- not just "their unacceptable" here. And so -- enjoy!

I come here with some trepidation, my friends. I am not really a political artist, I have had in the past more reason to fear my videos being yanked for “too much” exposed female flesh or video snippets which should be – but often are not, especially for those too small to afford lawyers – covered under the doctrine of “fair use.” But recent events have forced my hand, and considerations which as a free American I never thought that I would need to concern myself with have brought me here. * the L Word You’ve got to shoot the birds that fly Force the girls who reject your passes Shout down the ones who ask you why, And if they won’t shut up then deplatform their asses! You’ve got the big guys on your side, Do anything but don’t upset the donors, Your running dogs will let it ride, Cover up all your mistakes and boners. Lockdown, lock out the little man, Ruin the ones who sunk it all in trying It’s all according to your plan, You’ve got a covenant with death and dying! When your time comes as come it will Don’t look to us to save your sorry asses. The soldiers’ boots your worthless bucks can’t fill Are all you’ve left of the middle classes!